


i'll be your steady satellite

by Chrome



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Space, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Science Fiction, Scientist Katsuki Yuuri, Scientist Victor Nikiforov, Scientist Yuri Plisetsky, the working title of this was Yuri!!! in Space
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-24 22:47:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14963657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrome/pseuds/Chrome
Summary: After seven months as Hawking Space Station’s resident astrobotanist, Yuuri Katsuki hasn’t managed to grow any plants in zero gravity. What have grown are his feelings for his childhood hero and now-coworker, mathematical genius and exobiologist Viktor Nikiforov. When a mechanical error leaves them at the mercy of the empty vastness of space, Yuuri and Viktor are forced to confront their budding relationship in the face of a terrible sacrifice.Written for the 2018 Viktuuri Reverse Bang in collaboration with rosesmusings.





	i'll be your steady satellite

**Author's Note:**

> This work was prompted by stunning art by the amazing rosesmusings, so please check it out [here](http://rosesmusings.tumblr.com/post/175006294134/i-dont-really-intend-to-post-much-art-to-tumblr)!
> 
> All my thanks to [Allison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stammiviktor), who was the first person to read this and also got a lot of text messages about it, and to [Rakel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadhahvar), the most amazing beta reader.

After seven months on Hawking Station, Yuuri had developed a ritual for his two-week check-in. Coffee on the far table, where it couldn’t be spilled. Gloves on. Check and record the conditions: time, temperature and humidity inside and outside the container. Make sure it remained sealed, and then carefully crack it open. The lid, Yuuri had learned, could be lifted with one hand, leaving him free to cross his fingers with the other while quietly chanting _onegai, onegai, onegai…_

He lifted the lid and set it down on the lab counter with a clatter, then peered at the soil. His heart sunk, and he glanced around for a sterile lab tool before giving up and prodding into the dirt with his pen. Nothing. He reached in with a gloved hand and pulled out a handful of soil, breaking the clod apart in his palm.

Not even a bit of green.

After seven months on Hawking Station, Yuuri had developed a ritual for his two-week check-in. That was because he’d had fourteen two-week check-ins. He had failed to develop a ritual for any later examinations of the plants because none of them had ever managed to sprout.

“Shit.” He dropped the dirt back into the container and slumped against the counter.

The hiss of the door opening alerted him to another presence in the lab. “Nothing?” Viktor asked from the doorway.

“Nothing,” Yuuri said, and stripped his gloves off. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong! It all worked in theory. And on Earth.”

“That’s how it goes,” Viktor said, knowingly, although Yuuri knew for a fact he didn’t.

“You’ve never tried to grow plants in space,” Yuuri said, a little surlier than he meant to be. “You don’t know how it is.”

“No,” Viktor said. “But I absolutely know what it’s like to do experiments with no results!”

“Oh,” Yuuri said. “No aliens?” It was a stupid question. Yuuri was certain that the entire station and also all of Twitter would know the second Viktor had found aliens.

“No aliens!” Viktor said. “Which is fine, really. Imagine how embarrassing it would be to make first contact with another form of life and have to tell them that we can’t even figure out how to grow plants in space.”

Against his will, Yuuri found himself smiling as he swept the mess of dirt into the organic waste receptacle. “Oh, I guess that would be embarrassing.”

“Truly,” Viktor said. “So I can take my time, as long as you’re still working on those marigolds.”

“And bok choy,” Yuuri said. “There was also bok choy. Or there was supposed to be bok choy.”

“And bok choy,” Viktor agreed. “Lunch?”

“Lunch,” Yuuri said.

After seven months on Hawking Station, Yuuri had also developed a bit of a routine with regards to Viktor. Or rather, Viktor had developed a routine with regards to Yuuri, because Yuuri spent his first week on the station avoiding _Dr. Viktor Nikiforov, foremost expert in extraterrestrial life_ to the best of his ability.

Then on day eight, Viktor had been sitting in his lab when he arrived.

“Dr. Katsuki,” he said. “You’ve been avoiding me!”

“No I haven’t,” Yuuri had lied, immediately.

“Of course you have,” Viktor said. “There are three people on this station. It would be impossible to see so little of each other unless someone was being deliberate, and _I_ haven’t been avoiding _you._ ”

Yuuri had stared at him.

“Do you not like me?” Viktor asked. He said it brightly, but there was a bit of sadness in his eyes. “If so, I can make an effort to stay out of your way.”

Yuuri continued to stare because _not liking_ was the least correct way he could think of to describe his feelings towards _Dr. Viktor Nikiforov._ Said feelings had probably begun when Viktor had first become famous—the Russian math prodigy who solved a Millennium Problem at age sixteen. Yuuri had followed his career ever since, fascinated by the silver-haired teenager who smiled brightly at the television cameras and did math like it was as easy as breathing.

He’d shocked the world when he’d decided to pursue astronomy and exobiology PhDs rather than mathematics. Yuuri had watched the interview over and over again, seventeen years old in his bedroom in Hasetsu.

“People keep asking if I’ll miss math!” Viktor had laughed on the screen, his brightest smile tilted towards the camera. Yuuri knew it hadn’t been directed at anyone in particular, but it seemed like Viktor has stared right at him as he said, “But astronomy, the search for extraterrestrial life—it’s all numbers. The universe’s most beautiful equation.”

His PhD thesis had become a bestselling book. _The most innovative approach to the search for other life in the universe since Drake,_ the New York Times had written. 

Yuuri had a copy. A sentence in the final chapter was underlined and highlighted, re-read over and over again. He had the citation for it memorized.

_To find other life, we must take a step further to break through whatever Great Filter holds us back. We must learn to live across a broader stretch of galaxy: grow plants in space, carry our civilization to other worlds. As a species, we must endure across time. And as individuals, we must learn to listen to ways of communication that do not match our own._

Sleep-deprived, running up against a deadline, Yuuri had declared a biology major in college, and under his ‘reason for declaration’ he had written _I want to grow plants in space._

Did he not like Dr. Viktor Nikiforov? Standing in front of his idol, Yuuri could barely even process the words. “What?”

“Say no more,” Viktor held up a hand. “I’ll leave you alone.”

“No!” Yuuri burst out, before Viktor could turn and go. “That’s not—I read your book!”

“Oh?” Viktor tilted his head. “Was it that bad?”

“No, that’s not what I—I was following your career before that, I mean—” Yuuri had started rambling and, to his horror, couldn’t make himself stop. “I saw you on TV when I was a kid, when you solved the Millennium Problem, and what you said, about the universe, it’s the whole reason I’m here.” Yuuri could feel his face getting warm, but he couldn’t manage to stop himself. “And I was—worried I was going to tell you all that, so I was maybe a little bit avoiding you.”

Yuuri had been convinced he’d managed to scare Viktor away entirely with the speech, so when he’d finally managed to pry his eyes off his shoes he’d been startled to see that Viktor was still standing there. More than that, his eyes had lit up, all the sadness gone. “Yuuri,” he said. “Can I call you Yuuri?”

“Yes,” Yuuri said, immediately. “Sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“To tell me you’re a fan of mine?” Viktor asked.

Yuuri flushed again. “Yes.”

“I’m glad you told me,” Viktor said, earnestly. “I’m a fan of yours, too.”

“Of—mine?”

“Yes!” Viktor said.

Yuuri blinked. “How do you even know who I am?”

Viktor looked at him like he’d possibly suffered a head injury. “I read your thesis!”

“ _Why?”_

“We’re in the same field!” Viktor said. “Obviously astrobiology is fairly broad and so there’s not a lot of overlap between astrobotany and exobiology but I still read your work.”

“Oh,” Yuuri said.

“And it’s fascinating,” Viktor said. “I was so happy when I heard you were coming here. There’s so many practical applications to your work—if we could really develop agriculture in these conditions, it would dramatically extend the human capacity for spaceflight.”

“Which could be the key to finding other life in the universe,” Yuuri completed.

Viktor looked at him with such obvious affection that it almost hurt. “Yes!”

“I read your book,” Yuuri said. “I maybe read your book a lot.”

“Yuuri,” Viktor said. “Come have lunch with me today?”

“Yes,” Yuuri said. “I’d like that.”

“I’ll come get you,” Viktor said. “Bye, Yuuri.”

“Bye, Viktor,” Yuuri said, and then, “Is that okay if I call you—”

“Please,” Viktor said.

And that had started them having lunch together. It had started as something they did once a week. Then it had become twice, then three times, and two months into Yuuri’s stay on the station, it was every day. Either Viktor appeared in his doorway sometime around halfway through their shift, or Yuuri watched the clock tick later and later and stripped off his gloves to go pry the Russian away from his work.

Apparently Viktor had memorized Yuuri’s experiment schedule, because he always seemed to show up at just the right time to pull Yuuri away from his latest disappointment. The first couple of times it had been a little bit humiliating, his idol arriving in time to witness his failures. But over the months, Viktor had become a friend rather than a prodigy on television, and his presence was more of a comfort than anything else.

Even so, Yuuri felt the weight of disappointment as they walked through the hall. Viktor reached over and slung an arm across his shoulders. “It’s not a failure,” Viktor said.

“You’re right,” Yuuri said. “I really wanted empty dirt.”

“It’s not the result you hoped for,” Viktor said. “But you still successfully completed an experiment!  And you know that what you did this time didn’t work! So it’s time to revise your hypothesis and try again!”

“Hey, Katsudon,” their third crew member yelled down the hall. Yuuri winced; Yurio had no concept of an inside voice, which was unfortunate on a space station where everything qualified as ‘inside.’

“Hey, Yurio.”

“Don’t call me that!” Yuri Plisetsky scowled. He was another Russian, and Yuuri had spent a solid month convinced that he hated him. Viktor had eventually disabused him of the notion. “He is like an angry kitten,” Viktor said. “He respects you and doesn’t know how to show it  except with his tiny little claws.” 

Yuuri wasn’t sure about respect, but they’d fallen into something like friendship after that.

“Then don’t call me Katsudon,” Yuuri said.

“I can’t call you Yuuri,” Yurio scowled. “That’s my name.”

“No, you’re Yurio,” Viktor said.

Yurio punched him in the arm. “Shut up, old man!”

“I’m wounded!” Viktor proclaimed. Yuuri carefully did not roll his eyes.

“Anyway, Katsudon,” Yurio continued. “Anything?”

Yuuri’s face must have given it away. Yurio grimaced in something that might have been sympathy.

“Sucks.”

Yuuri shrugged.

Yurio continued, “But you’re better off than the old man! You’ll figure it out eventually if it takes you like a decade, whereas Viktor will be beaming bullshit into space forever.”

“I’m right here!” Viktor complained.

Yurio scoffed. “It’s your own fault. They would have let you do anything and you decide to launch the fucking X-Files.”

“I want to believe,” Viktor said, very solemnly.

“I want lunch,” Yuuri said. “Are you coming?” he directed the question at Yurio.

“I don’t have anything better to do,” Yurio said, following after.

“How’s the laboratory arm coming?” Viktor asked as he opened the cabinet and withdrew packaged meals. “Yuuri, very soft chicken with rice or very hard beef with potatoes?”

“…the chicken, I guess.”

“Beef,” said Yurio.

Viktor also pulled out a beef meal. Yuuri took it from him and slid them into the convection oven.                                                

“It’s coming,” said Yurio, and then made a face. “Actually, I think we need to do a repair of the secondary module, I’m getting weird readings and I don’t want to attach the arm until I’m sure nothing’s wrong.”

“Is it something serious?” Viktor asked.

“I think it’s just an instrument error,” he said. “But I can’t run the computer and also be in the module looking at it, so I don’t know for sure.”

“Do you need our help?” Yuuri asked. “We have downtime.”

“Yeah, why not,” Yurio said. “You can make yourselves useful for once and actually help keep the station in orbit instead of your bullshit experiments. Help me run a diagnostic tomorrow.”

“Alright,” Viktor said, amused. “I’ll clear my schedule.”

“Yeah, tell the fucking Martians you have to move their meeting to Tuesday,” Yurio shot back.

“Tuesday’s already booked for the Andromedans,” Viktor corrected serenely. As always, he seemed unbothered by the reference to his own lack of results. Even seven months in Yuuri couldn’t tell how much of his nonchalance was an act. Yuuri’s thesis advisor, Celestino, had worked with Viktor once. No matter how much Yuuri quizzed him, all he’d ever heard was that Viktor was a man who kept his thoughts to himself.

That, at least, didn’t seem to be particularly accurate to Yuuri. It was possible that living in close quarters on a space station had changed his habits, but Viktor had never been particularly reserved around Yuuri. If he’d asked, he might have gotten a straight answer about his feelings, but he never quite worked up the courage.

“Do we still have the orange stuff?” Yurio asked, breaking into Yuuri’s train of thought.

“Mm, yes,” Viktor said, moving over to the next shelf. “Also grape and whatever we decided the blue was.”

“I want the orange,” Yurio said.

“Blue, please,” Yuuri said. “I think it’s raspberry.”

“Raspberries aren’t blue,” said Yurio, making a face.

“Nor is anything in nature this particular shade of orange,” Viktor said, dumping the neon powder into a glass. “Can you imagine doing this without artificial gravity?”

“Yeah,” said Yurio, “Sounds like hell.”

“They hadn’t perfected the system when I first trained,” Viktor said. “Did they make you do weightlessness training?”

“Umm, a little,” said Yuuri. “Not a lot. More when I first started training but—you know, this is my first time in space.”

“And Yurio’s too,” Viktor said. “I have all the experience here.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re old.”

“You cut me so deeply,” Viktor said with an exaggerated sigh. “But! When I first trained, they used to make you go up in a plane that went up and dove, so you would experience a few moments of weightlessness before you left Earth. Now you’re only weightless in a shuttle, of course, so they give you much less training.”

“I didn’t do that,” Yurio said. “What was it like?”

“Awful,” Viktor said. “They called it the ‘vomit comet.’”

Yurio snickered. “I wish I’d been there to see that.”

“You would have been puking in zero gravity with the rest of us,” Viktor said, “So count yourself lucky.”

“How old were you?” Yuuri asked.

“When I first went up, or when I started training?” Viktor asked.

“You were twenty-one when you went up in space the first time,” Yuuri said, and then blushed. “I didn’t—pretend I didn’t know that. When did you start training?”

“Officially, the year before I went up,” Viktor said. Even though Yuuri looked at the oven instead of him, he could hear the smile in Viktor’s voice. “But I was doing a few things from when I was nineteen.”

“I thought you were still doing math then,” said Yurio.

“I was,” Viktor said. “I went up for the first time as a mathematician, actually. Then I fell in love.” He gestured at the window that stretched across the wall. After months, Yuuri occasionally took the view for granted, but when Viktor pointed to it he looked again and was captivated by the expanse of starlight, millions of tiny lights.

Yurio rolled his eyes. “Yeah, with a void that will kill you as soon as it can. Sure.”

“Drink your radiation,” Viktor quipped, shoving the fluorescent drink at Yurio. “Let an old man be sentimental.”

“You’re not old,” Yuuri said.

“This is why I love you,” Viktor replied. Whatever Yuuri had planned to say immediately flew out of his mind. He made an odd strangled noise and turned back to the convection oven to hide the heat that had flooded his cheeks.

“You broke Katsudon,” Yurio snickered.

“Here,” Yuuri said, still flushed, and shoved the first tray of beef at Yurio. He tried to avoid eye contact when he got the second for Viktor, but then decided that was worse, and looked up to see Viktor looking at him with warm amusement suffusing his features. He sat down across from him anyway with his chicken and his shame. He studiously avoided looking back up in favor of eating the very soft chicken. He could cut it easily with the side of his plastic spoon.

“Here,” Viktor said, and Yuuri had to look up to take the blue drink from him. When he curled his fingers around the glass, Viktor didn’t let go right away, leaving their fingers together for a moment.

“You two can’t be serious.” Yurio slammed his glass down, making Yuuri jump.  Viktor kept his grip on his hand, though.

“Someday you’ll understand,” Viktor said serenely, finally releasing the glass to Yuuri and examining his own options.

Yuuri wasn’t sure if Yurio would, mostly because he wasn’t entirely sure that he understood. Or rather, he understood that Viktor was gorgeous, and very smart, and unreservedly kind, and for some absurd reason he sometimes seemed to be flirting with Yuuri. And on his better days, Yuuri could imagine that it was maybe not so much a matter of “seemed to be flirting” but rather a case of “was flirting.” The trouble came when he thought about doing anything about it.

If Viktor had been really, truly serious, Yuuri would have reciprocated. But as it was, he couldn’t imagine that Viktor meant it. Or maybe he did mean it, in the moment, when it was three people on a space station and one of them was Yurio. But he didn’t mean it in a scope that lasted beyond the time they would spend out here together.

A small, traitorous part of Yuuri, the part that had made him keep going to frat parties and hooking up with hockey players when he was an undergrad in Detroit, screamed that he should be jumping at the chance to hook up with Viktor even if it was temporary. But the larger part of Yuuri, the part that he relied upon for his own self-preservation, knew that if he ever had Viktor, he would never be able to let him go.

So, for the sake of his own heart, he drank his definitely-raspberry sports drink and said nothing.

Viktor finally pulled a packet out of the cabinet and emptied it into a glass.

“Oh, man, there’s a piss one left,” said Yurio.

“It’s lemonade,” Viktor said primly.

“It looks like piss,” said Yurio.

Yuuri was privately inclined to agree with Yurio about the drink’s appearance, but it did taste good, so he couldn’t entirely blame Viktor for pouring the water in and stirring it.

“At least Shinji Ikari didn’t drown in it,” Yuuri said, which turned out to be the worst mistake of his life, not only because the joke wasn’t particularly funny but because both of the Russians stared at him blankly and he was left fruitlessly attempting to explain the plot of Neon Genesis Evangelion.

“Let me get that for you,” Viktor said when Yuuri gave up trying to explain his joke and drained the glass. Their fingers brushed again and Yuuri shivered, then pulled his hand away. He didn’t need to develop a complex about blue raspberry powdered drink, of all things. “Do you want water?”

“That would be great,” Yuuri said.

When Viktor set the glass down in front of Yuuri and settled back across from him, Yuuri studied his food rather than make eye contact. Apparently not content to let Yuuri hide, Viktor nudged him gently in the leg with his toes. Yuuri looked up at him and saw Viktor with one eyebrow raised, a silent question.

Yurio spared him from trying to make a response. “So tomorrow morning’s good?”

“Good for what?” Viktor asked after a moment of chewing.

“Helping me with the module,” said Yurio. “The one giving me weird readings.”

“Sure,” Viktor said. “I can make it work.”

Yurio rolled his eyes. “Of course you can, you don’t have to stick to an experiment schedule. I was asking Katsudon.”

“That’s fine,” said Yuuri. “I’m replanting this afternoon, anyway, so I won’t have much to do tomorrow.”

“Cool,” said Yurio. “I want to get it done this week before that asteroid comes by. If we have the new arm up by then we can take better photographs.”

“You’re expecting it to take a week?” Viktor asked.  “I thought you said you didn’t think there was actually anything wrong.”

“I don’t,” said Yurio. “But if there is, that gives me time to fix it. And if there isn’t I can maybe get the stupid warning panel to shut up by then."

“We’ll help,” Yuuri said.

“Cool,” Yurio said, and shoved a forkful of beef into his mouth.

\---

Yuuri didn’t see Viktor again until the evening. They didn’t always eat dinner together, since Yuuri sometimes preferred to work later and give himself time to sleep in; Viktor, for inexplicable reasons, preferred to sleep early and rise early. A morning person, Yuuri thought dismally. (A little traitorous part of his brain imagined what that would be like, sleeping together—sliding into bed with Viktor already asleep, half-walking a little too early as Viktor tried to slip out without rousing him. He kicked that part into a cupboard as quickly as he could.)

That evening, though, Yuuri left his plants alone early once the container was sealed, flicking off the lights and tapping in his code to lock the lab. He wandered along the corridor and hesitated at the door to Viktor’s lab, then slid it open.

Viktor rarely locked the door of his lab. Yuuri had questioned it once and Viktor had laughed. “I don’t have anything dangerous that could be disturbed,” he pointed out. “And it isn’t like anyone but you or Yurio could come in. Unless,” he had smiled at Yuuri, “We’re getting alien visitors, in which case, perhaps it will make them feel welcome!”

A part of Yuuri still scolded him for failing to knock, but Viktor had never been annoyed at him for entering without announcing himself—and sure enough, when he heard the door slide open, Viktor looked up from his laptop and beamed at him.

“Do you need anything?” he asked.

“Ah, no,” Yuuri said. “I hope I’m not bothering you? I can go if—“

“Oh, no,” Viktor rushed to assure him. “Not at all. But you’re usually not done so early.” Unlike Yuuri’s lab, which was windowless to give him complete control over the entrance of light, Viktor’s had a large window like the one in the cafeteria. Viktor’s desk faced it, so whenever he glanced up it would be into the gleam of starlight. Now, though, he turned his back on the view to face the door where Yuuri stood.

“I guess not,” Yuuri said. “But I wasn’t really focusing and the time-sensitive stuff is done, so. I figure I’ll just get some more done after we help Yurio tomorrow.”

“Ah, that’s right,” said Viktor.

“Did you forget already?” Yuuri asked, although he wouldn’t have been surprised. Except for every conversation he and Yuuri had ever had—which he seemed to remember in perfect detail—Viktor had a terrible memory. He had once admitted to recalculating calibrations every time he ran an experiment because it was easier for him than remembering the correct numbers.

“I put it in my calendar,” Viktor said. “It would have reminded me tomorrow.”

“Is that how you remember when my trials are done?” Yuuri asked, before he could stop himself.

“What?” Viktor said.

“My—” In for a penny. “My experiment trials. You always come to my lab when I’ve finished with them.”

“Ah,” Viktor said. “No, they’re every two weeks, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” Yuuri said.

“Every other Thursday.” Viktor smiled at him. “I can remember that.”

Yuuri felt a surge of warmth, but all he said was, “Oh.”

“Oh,” Viktor said, his voice going up in a teasing manner.

“What are you working on?” Yuuri asked. He came in and hoisted himself onto the lab table in the center of the room, nudging a notebook out of the way. There was another chair somewhere, but Viktor’s space wasn’t sterile anyway, and he never seemed to mind when Yuuri co-opted this particular piece of furniture.

“Ah, just a few density calculations,” Viktor said. “At this point in terms of sentience, we’re looking at mostly the potential for carbon-based life—or, shall we say, life similar to what would be found on Earth. Of course, the search for bacteria in our interstellar neighborhood is ongoing, but if we want to look further it has to be sentient, of course.”

“Of course,” Yuuri echoed. “Because we’re relying on receiving a response, not on seeing it for ourselves.”

“Exactly,” Viktor smiled at him. Viktor smiled almost constantly, but Yuuri never got tired of seeing it aimed at him, specifically. It was somehow a different smile that he wore in front of a camera—wider, brighter. More sincere.

“But carbon-based,” Yuuri said.

“Sure,” Viktor said. “Not because we anticipate all life to be carbon-based—actually, I don’t, we’re so fragile, it’s far more likely that if we’re finding life in harsh environments it won’t bear much resemblance to us at all. But it’s very hard to look for something when you have no idea what its feature are. And at the very least we know what features carbon-based life is going to have, what sort of temperature the stars are going to need to be, the sort of elements we’re anticipating finding on a planetary surface. So we look for carbon-based life because at least it’s a target we can identify.”

Yuuri could listen to Viktor talk forever. Viktor was a talented writer, Yuuri knew—he had read his book over and over again, finding it somehow both terrifically insightful and completely understandable—but talking to him was a different experience entirely. If the book was a reflection of Viktor’s genius, a conversation was a laser-focus on you of everything that Viktor was, everything he was thinking about and cared about.

Yuuri knew he wasn’t a genius, not the way Viktor was. He’d had his fair share of difficulties with math in school, had studied his ass off all the way through organic chemistry in undergrad. He was well aware that any success he had now was a matter of hard work, not some sort of innate talent. But he’d worked with his fair share of geniuses, people at the top of their field. They’d had a variety of personalities, but they all tended to be in some way self-absorbed or flighty. When they spoke, they looked a little bit past you; when they slipped into thought, their eyes unfocused and they went inward.

In some way, Yuuri had expected the same of Viktor. And in some ways Viktor _was_ like that—his awful memory, the flippancy with which he did math and expected everyone to grasp concepts as easily. But whenever they spoke, even when it was a theory of Viktor’s that Yuuri barely understood, Viktor’s eyes met his exactly. He saw Yuuri the entire time. It had thrilled him and unsettled him in turns at first, to have his idol’s complete attention.

Now it just made him feel warm to think that someone like Viktor, someone he now knew was as ridiculous and affectionate and utterly sincere as he was brilliant, would look at him like that. Someone who saw the beauty of universe so clearly as to follow it all the way up into the stars, who when they sat together in Viktor’s lab with a view opening up onto the galaxy, turned his back to it and stared at Yuuri instead.

“So you’re calculating the density of those elements to determine where to look for life?” Yuuri asked.

“Yes, pretty much,” Viktor said. “Actually, I’m starting with the types of stars, because they’re the easiest to identify—when the light reaches us, we can usually tell where they are and how brightly they’re burning and how old they are. And when we see a big yellow star like our sun, and maybe we think there are planets around it, then we can start to try and get other data on the area, or point a telescope at it or send something out there to go look at it.” He laughed and waved a hand to dismiss his own words. “I’m sorry, I’m talking so much and you’re just asking to be polite.”

“No,” Yuuri said. “I like to hear you talk. That is, I want to know about it. I mean—“

“I know what you mean,” Viktor said.

“Good,” Yuuri said.

“I like to hear you talk, too,” Viktor said.

Yuuri blushed. “I—“ he shook his head. “You can’t—Viktor. You can’t say things like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like—“

“Like that, I like to hear you talk?”

“Yes, like that,” Yuuri said.

“Why not?” Viktor looked at him. “I do. You have a lovely voice, Yuuri. I like how my name sounds when you say it.”

“Viktor!”

“Like that,” Viktor grinned at him, wicked.

Yuuri groaned and covered his face with his hands, feeling the heat of his own blush. Viktor laughed, bright and warm.

“You’re impossible,” Yuuri said, finally.

“I know,” Viktor said. “I don’t know how you put up with it.”

“I don’t either,” said Yuuri, but he peeked out between his fingers to look at Viktor and caught the faintest edge to his grin, like he wasn’t sure how much Yuuri was joking. So he drew his hands away to let Viktor see his smile, just to watch the tension vanish from his face.

“I mean that, you know,” Viktor said. “That I like to hear you.”

“I know,” Yuuri said. He didn’t add _that’s what I’m afraid of._

They walked back to their quarters together that night, and Viktor hesitated outside his door. “You could come in,” he teased. “Spend the night.”

“You only have one bed,” Yuuri pointed out.

“Exactly,” Viktor said, and Yuuri knew he was just joking but his heart did a somersault anyway.

“Not tonight,” Yuuri said, pretending his cheeks hadn’t gone red again.

“But some other night?” Viktor asked, eyebrows up.

“We’ll see,” Yuuri said, and Viktor beamed at him, wide and heart-shaped. When he shut the door, Yuuri could still picture that smile perfectly, like it was hanging in the air like the Cheshire Cat.

What would Alice do? _Eat me,_ his brain supplied in Viktor’s voice, low and seductive, and Yuuri bolted to his own quarters before he could do something he’d regret.

\---

The morning arrived on little cat feet, if cats stomped as loud as they could, kicked your room door, and bellowed, “Katsudon!”

“What the hell,” said Yuuri, sliding the door open. He was still in his pajamas.

“You were going to help me check the module,” said Yuri. “Did you forget?”

“No,” Yuuri said. “I just thought we were doing that in the morning rather than the middle of the night.”

“It is the morning,” Yuri said.

“You never get up before ten,” Yuuri accused.

“I did today,” Yuri said.

“Only because he wanted us to suffer,” Viktor sighed, slotting himself into the doorway beside Yuri. He was fully dressed.

“Shut up, old man,” Yuri turned his glare on Viktor. “You _did_ forget.”

“I remembered when I saw it on my calendar,” Viktor said primly.

Yuuri was still blinking at them. Yuri whirled back around to shout at him again.  “Get dressed!”

“Get out of my room and I will!”

When Yuuri finally joined them, they were in the cafeteria, Viktor making powdered eggs. He set a plate before Yuuri with a flourish.

“Thanks,” said Yuuri. “My hero.” His tone was almost as dry as the eggs.

Viktor beamed at him anyway. Yurio groaned.

“Hush,” Viktor said, sitting down across from Yuuri. He’d apparently already eaten, since all he had in front of him was a cup of tea, which he was cheerfully spooning strawberry jam into. Yuuri made a face, which Viktor caught. “You’d like it if you tried it,” he said.

“I’ll pass.”

“It isn’t like your green tea, anyway,” Viktor said in a tone of voice that suggested he was being perfectly sensible.

“If you put jam in my green tea,” Yuuri said very seriously, “I would murder you.” He had made Viktor tea before, with his carefully hoarded but still dwindling supply of Sencha.

Viktor picked up the end of the tea bag to show Yuuri the “Lipton” printed on the little paper tag. “It’s hardly a waste of good tea.”

“Are you done?” Yuri complained.

Yuuri waved a hand over his plate, which was still mostly covered in eggs, in answer.

“Make yourself some tea, Yurio,” Viktor suggested.

“That’s not my name!” Yuri snapped. Yuuri had fallen into the habit of calling him Yurio at all times, because it was so wholly odd to think of someone else as ‘Yuri’; since Viktor seemed to favor other nicknames whenever Yurio wasn’t in earshot, Yuuri strongly suspected that Viktor did it merely to wind him up.

“Okay, Yurio,” Viktor said.

Yuri snarled and snatched the jar of jam from Viktor.

“That’s mine,” Viktor protested, although not with any real expectation of getting it back.

“And I’m taking some because you won’t stop calling me that stupid nickname,” he said, snatching his own mug and making himself a cup of tea.

Yuuri hid his smile in his napkin, but either Viktor was a telepath or he could see the amusement in Yuuri’s eyes, because he winked at him conspiratorially and only put up a token protest when Yurio finally returned the jam.

Yuuri took advantage of the momentary lull to finish his eggs. Viktor drank his tea and grinned; Yurio drank his tea and scowled. The minute that Yuuri set down his fork, he was on his feet.

“Okay! Let’s go check the console!”

“So bossy,” Viktor sighed, but he stood up. “I’m not done with my tea.”

“It’ll still be here when we get back, it’ll take twenty minutes at most,” Yurio said. “We’d be done already if you weren’t so fucking slow.”

“It will be cold,” Viktor complained.

“We’ll reheat it,” said Yuuri. “Let’s get this done.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” Yurio rolled his eyes.

He directed them into the furthest service module, which sure enough was flashing warning lights on the control panel, visible even from through the airlock. They stepped through the first door and into the connecting compartments, and then through the second door to stand before the interface. Yurio remained in the doorway of the main compartment, waiting.

“Check pressure,” Viktor read from the screen. “What’s wrong with the pressure?” He waved a hand in the air, as though there was something tangible to check. “Seems fine.”

“Nothing!” Yuri snapped. “Nothing is wrong with the pressure, the dumb thing just thinks there is.

So you guys stay there. I’m going to go to the command room and we’ll try and run some diagnostics.”

“Okay,” Yuuri said. “Do we need to get radios or anything?”

“I’ll just intercom you,” Yuri said. “I’m just going to be on another part of the station.”

He stomped off and Yuuri turned back to Viktor, who was looking at the panel intently. The light from it shone through his hair and made it glow like moonlight, and Yuuri sucked in a sharp breath at the sight of him.

“Something wrong?” Viktor asked, looking up.

“No,” Yuuri said, and almost said, _it’s just that you’re beautiful_ , but then the intercom crackled to life.

“Okay,” said Yurio. “Run a diagnostic. Let me see what that looks like from here.”

Viktor tapped the panel. “Running now.”

They stood in silence a moment, waiting. The module was mostly empty still, given that the new laboratory arm had yet to be installed. The vast set of controls waited, offsetting the pure white of the interior panelling. Above the controls was a wide window. By the following week, it would be a view of the laboratory arm for any operator standing at the interface: now, it offered an unobstructed view of the galaxy.

The panel beeped. “Check pressure,” Viktor said.

Yurio cursed over the intercom. “It’s coming up clean here.”

“Run a reset from the control room?” Viktor suggested.

“Hang on,” Yuri said. “I’ve got to get it to give me full control, because it’s technically got an autonomous system.”

Yuuri studied the compartment. “Maybe the pressure issue is because it isn’t sealed and it thinks it should be?” he suggested. “Like, an airlock issue.”

“Oh, maybe,” Yuri said. “So maybe it will stop once I get control. Hang on.”

“Hanging on,” Viktor quipped, and turned to look at Yuuri.

“What are you doing?” Yuuri asked, when he said nothing.

“Admiring the view,” said Viktor.

Yuuri blinked at him, about to point out that the spill of starlight was behind Viktor, but he was distracted by the click of the airlock seal. “Pressurizing,” the panel declared.

“Oh, good,” Viktor said. “Is that what it wanted?”

“Yeah,” said Yurio. “Thanks, Katsudon,” he added grudgingly.

“No problem,” said Yuuri. “Sometimes you just need a fresh pair of eyes.”

“Maybe I should look at your plants, then,” said Yurio grumpily.

“Warning’s gone,” Viktor reported. “Can you unseal it now?”

“Yeah,” Yurio said. “Hang on.”

“We’re doing a lot of that,” Viktor said.

“Well that’s because—“

The intercom abruptly cut out. At the same time, the lights on the interface flared as one and went dark, the control panel flashed an error, and the entire compartment seemed to lurch before shuddering to a stop.

“What was that.” Viktor said, his voice oddly quiet in the sudden silence.

Then the world was spinning.

Yuuri felt his feet go out from under him as the module was ripped from the rest of the station. They toppled in a dizzying spiral for what might have been half a second or a full minute, and then there was silence again in the gleam of the machinery and the starlight.

“Shit,” Yuuri said, once his heart had stopped pounding.  He hadn’t been thrown into the wall as he feared—but only because he was floating in the air. “What—where’s the artificial gravity?”

“We’re disconnected from the station,” Viktor said, stunned. “God damn it, Yura, I thought you said there wasn’t actually a problem with the module.”

That explained the sudden spiral, Yuuri realized. The station typically remained in steady revolution to maintain the artificial gravity—a true feat of engineering, even moreso because it was unnoticeable from on board. But once the module was disconnected, the rest of the station continued to turn while the module lost momentum, hurling it backwards into its own crooked orbit.

“Are we—can we throw out a line and just, reel ourselves back in?” Yuuri suggested, voice going higher with nerves.

“Maybe,” Viktor was also floating in midair. He turned and flapped his arms a bit, like a bird desperately trying to take flight, and got enough momentum to find a wall and kick off it towards the control panel.

“What is it?” Yuuri asked, still suspended, watching Viktor look at their position.

“We’re too far,” Viktor said. “The module’s light, and when it snapped off we got a bit of distance.”

“Shit,” Yuuri said again. “Can we—we need to reconnect.”

“Let me see,” Viktor said. He was typing rapidly, letting the onboard computer feed him information about their surroundings while he included the numbers into his mental calculus. There was a long moment while the data generated, and then appeared with a cheerful beep. “Okay!”

“Can we reconnect?”

“Yes. When we pass by the moon,” Viktor said. “The gravitational field should move us closer together. It’s most of an orbit around, so—thirty-four hours?”

“Okay,” Yuuri said. “I’m going to be really hungry by then, but I think we’ll live.”

Viktor was silent. Yuuri took a better look at him and realized he had gone pale, all the blood draining out of his face.

“Viktor?” Yuuri asked, carefully. “What is it?”

“The artificial gravity,” Viktor said. “We lost it because we disconnected from the station.”

“Yes?” Yuuri said.

“We also lost life support.”

“No,” Yuuri said, automatically. “No, that can’t—” he turned to look and was met with the blinking red light of the life support notification on the opposite wall. “The module is autonomous!”

“The module can be autonomous,” said Viktor. “But the life support isn’t operating.”

“It has to be operating. It pressurized, we heard it pressurize!”

“I don’t think the pressurization was the real problem,” Viktor said. “The command center kept reading it as no error.”

“And?” Yuuri stared at him.

“And it’s an electrical issue, probably. The error wasn’t with the module, it was in the command center. Wiring error prevented it from being conveyed to the main computer.”

“What does that have to do with the life support?”

“Oxygen generation is electricity-based,” Viktor said. “Water vapor is drawn from the air, condensed, and split via electrolysis. Oxygen is released via the life support system and hydrogen is released. No electricity, no oxygen.”

“But—” Yuuri cast about frantically for something that made sense. “But we’re fine!”

“We’re fine for now,” Viktor corrected. “We have air for now.”

“Shit, shit, shit,” Yuuri said. The weight of the situation—gravity or no gravity—was finally hitting him.  “Can we—how long?”

“I don’t know,” Viktor said. “Let me—who knows, maybe we’ll be fine. Thirty-four hours, only two of us and this is a big compartment.” He pulled up the dimensions of the compartment on the panel and then stood in front of it, eyes glazing over.

Under ordinary circumstances Yuuri liked to watch Viktor work almost as much as he liked to hear Viktor talk. He particularly liked the look on Viktor’s face when he was calculating something—his gaze always went into soft focus, turning the world into so much white noise as he slipped into his own mind.

Today, the peaceful expression didn’t last long enough, his features warping again into something more desperate. He pulled up the calculator application on the control panel, as though he somehow didn’t trust the numbers he’d given and needed to check again.

“What is it?”

“…we may be in trouble,” Viktor reluctantly admitted. 

“How in trouble?” Yuuri stood up. “What’s going on?”

“We need thirty-four hours,” Viktor said.

“How long do we have? I bet we can—sleep? We’ll stop talking, be careful—“

“Seventeen,” said Viktor.

Yuuri froze. “What?”

“One person could make it,” Viktor said. “But two—we’ll barely make it halfway.”

“…we need to get the life support working again. It’s the only option.” Yuuri flailed midair, trying to push himself towards the panel. It worked a little, except that he tipped sideways and ended up spinning slowly.

“Alright,” Viktor said, and curled a hand around the metal rungs on the side, then extended himself fully to steady Yuuri with his other hand. “I forgot you and Yura didn’t have this training.”

“What training?” Yuuri could feel the bile of anxiety rising in his throat. “Training about running out of air?”

“About moving around in zero gravity,” Viktor said. “We’ll worry about that later. Right now, I need you to breathe.”

“We’re running out of air,” Yuuri snapped. “I don’t see why you want me to—”

“Yuuri.” Viktor had said Yuuri’s name a dozen different ways, teasing, serious, soft, warm, but never with that particular sternness. Yuuri supposed he knew Viktor was capable of it, had heard him take the tone with Yurio before, but there was something grounding in the way it said ‘I know what I’m doing, so listen to me.’ “You’re panicking.”

“I’m—” _not,_ Yuuri was going to say, except he realized in that moment that he was. His breath, for all that he’d been trying to conserve it, was coming in rapid pants.

“Breathe with me,” Viktor said, and he let go of the rail to take both of Yuuri’s hands in his, letting them float together, unmoored. “In.”

Yuuri inhaled, sharp and raspy. Viktor didn’t comment, just smiled softly at him. “Out.” He let the air go. “Good. In.”

They stayed like that for a long few moments, together, until Yuuri’s breathing really did match Viktor’s. He tugged his hands away as soon as he had a hold on himself again, feeling a mix of guilt and shame. Once he let go, he drifted again, and Viktor pushed himself forward to catch Yuuri’s wrist.

“Hey.”

“Sorry,” Yuuri said. “I’m sorry, I—I shouldn’t have lost it like that. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Viktor said. “It’s understandable.”

“It’s not,” Yuuri said. “We need to focus and I—”

“Fear is normal,” Viktor said quietly. “Fear is important. It reminds us we want to live.  So come, Yuuri. Fix this with me, so we can live.”

“Okay,” Yuuri said, and he took Viktor’s hand when he held it out. Viktor pulled him towards the controls, eventually curling a hand around the panel and drawing Yuuri close enough that he could hold on as well.

Yuuri took one more steadying breath. “What do we do?”

“I don’t know,” said Viktor. “Let’s figure it out.”

Viktor was a genius. Yuuri knew this, and he also knew that he wasn’t. He had, however, spent long enough in school to end up with a PhD in astrobiology, and along the way had taken enough math to be able to at least follow what Viktor was doing, even if he couldn’t replicate it at the same speed.

Two doctoral degrees between them and genius intellect aside, neither of them were engineers.

“Where is Yura when you need him,” Viktor said, once they’d managed to pry the panel off. Yuuri could tell immediately that no electricity was running through the wires: good, because it meant that they could manipulate them without being electrocuted, even though they had no specialized equipment. Bad, because it meant that no oxygen was being produced. “It’s lucky we can touch them, though!” Viktor added, as though he could read Yuuri’s thoughts.

“We wouldn’t need to touch them if it was running,” Yuuri reminded him.

Viktor shrugged. “We need to look on the bright side!”

Yuuri studied the wires carefully. “Some of the electricity is working.”

“How can you tell?” Viktor stared at the wires. “Does that mean we shouldn’t touch them?”

“Not here, I don’t think,” Yuuri said.  “But the warning lights were on. The red, right? So something’s running.”

“Oh!” Viktor’s smile came back for the first time. “You’re so smart, Yuuri. Okay! Let’s start from where the electricity is working.”

More prying of the panels ensued, and pretty soon they had large swathes of wire exposed. Parts of the controls were working and the life support panel alert glowed, but other switches were dead and the life support itself remained non-operational.

“I think it’s shorted out here,” Viktor said, tracing carefully through the little ribbons of metal with his finger inches from the live wires. “I wish we had gloves.”

“I do too,” said Yuuri, watching him anxiously. “Be careful.”

“You worry too much,” said Viktor. “Ah, see, here. I don’t think it’s connected quite right.”

“Was it damaged?” Yuuri asked.

“Never built quite properly, I think,” Viktor said. “It’s been so long since I thought about currents, let me see.”

“I took physics in undergrad,” Yuuri said. “Not since.”

“I even did an electrical engineering class,” Viktor said, not taking his eyes off the wires. “I was terrible at it, though.”

“You’ve never been terrible at anything in your life,” Yuuri accused.

“Oh, that’s not true,” said Viktor.  “Flattering that you think so, though.”

“Name one thing,” Yuuri said.

“Electrical engineering,” said Viktor, and gave Yuuri a weak little version of a smile.

“You’re good enough to get us through this,” Yuuri said stubbornly. “So something else.”

“Flirting,” Viktor said, mournfully.

Yuuri choked. “What?”

“You see,” Viktor said. “I once spent seven months flirting with a man and I never got anything but mixed signals.”

“Oh,” said Yuuri, thrown by the sudden switch in topic. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, don’t be,” Viktor said, carelessly.

Yuuri was struck by the fact that Viktor had brought it up, as though he’d been thinking about it, as though the proximity of death to them had brought the man to mind. Someone important, then; someone who had somehow had Viktor’s attention and love and failed to return it.

“Whoever it was,” Yuuri said, fiercely. “He’s an idiot and he didn’t deserve you.”

Viktor turned and looked at him, utterly bewildered, and then he laughed, clear and bright.

“Oh,” Viktor said. “No, I think I never deserved him, was the trouble—and yet he stayed anyway.  I mean it, don’t be sorry. The best seven months of my life—oh!”

“What is it?”

“I have an idea,” Viktor said, in a rush of excitement. “The warning light flashes because it’s on a pulse system. The connection is here.” He pointed. “See, here the current is flowing. And here it disconnects, and it is not.”

“Okay,” said Yuuri. “Does that help us?”

“It flashes on a four second interval,” Viktor said. “Four seconds at a time, we can manipulate the wire without getting electrocuted.”

“You think we can rewire it,” Yuuri said.

“I think we can,” Viktor said. Then he hesitated. “But I think it’s up to you.”

“Because I need to move the wires,” Yuuri said. “So you can time it and figure out where to connect it.”

“You could time it,” Viktor said. “I might be able to move it and trace the path at the same time.”

Yuuri shook his head. “That’s—that would be so dangerous. It’s already dangerous, you can’t do both at once.

“It’s not right to make you do it,” said Viktor.

“I’m the best person for the job,” Yuuri pointed out. “And it’s safe. For four seconds, it’s safe.”

Viktor shook his head. “You could tell me where to go.”

“I couldn’t,” Yuuri said. “You think you can?”

“I can,” Viktor confirmed.

“Then you’re definitely not bad at electrical engineering,” Yuuri said. “Tell me when and what to do, and I’ll do it.”

“I can’t ask you to—”

“I trust you,” said Yuuri. “Come on. Fix this with me.”

Viktor shook his head. “You’re amazing, Yuuri.”

Yuuri flushed. “Come on,” he repeated.

“Okay,” said Viktor. “We’re going to start with the dead wires. Come here.” Viktor edged back along the wall towards the life support system, and Yuuri followed. “Normally the electricity comes from—here, see? But nothing. If we can connect to this point, maybe it will be enough.”

“Why maybe?”

“Because the amount of electricity you need to turn a light on and off and the amount you need for electrolysis are different, and I don’t know what the source here is,” Viktor said.

“So if the source is enough,” Yuuri said, “The life support system will automatically pull what it needs when it’s connected, right?”

“Right,” said Viktor. “But if it’s a smaller generator, or not operating at full capacity, it won’t work.”

“Worth a shot,” said Yuuri. “Show me where.”

They worked their way backwards through the wires.  Once they got started, it was quick work until they reached the live portion of the board, and then Viktor hesitated.

“Show me where,” Yuuri said, again. “Viktor. I trust you.”

Viktor sighed, closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them again. “Okay. On means you can touch, off means you can’t. This wire,” he gestured, “Needs to connect to here. If I say ‘off’, drop it immediately.”

Yuuri nodded. “I’m ready.”

Viktor sucked in a breath. “On.”

Yuuri snatched up the wire and disconnected it from the light.

“Off!”

Yuuri dropped it, heart pounding.

“On.”

He picked it up again and tried to hook it into place. He couldn’t quite get it—almost—

“Off!”

Yuuri dropped it and cursed.

Viktor immediately turned towards him. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Yuuri assured him. “Just frustrated. When?”

It took Viktor a moment to start to count again, and it was those moments of silence when Yuuri saw how nervous Viktor was. He was gripping the wall so tightly his knuckles had gone white.

“On.”

Yuuri snatched up the wire again; this time, it hooked into place on the first try, and he was already pulling his hand away when Viktor said, “Off.”

“Is that it?”

“It…yes, that’s it,” Viktor said, and then scowled. It was the first time Yuuri had ever seen the expression on Viktor’s face. Flashes of frustration, or annoyance, or even hints of anger, yes—this pure unbridled disappointment was new.

“It didn’t work.”

“No,” Viktor said. “Not enough power, I think. Damn it.”

“Okay,” Yuuri said. He realized that until that second, he’d honestly believed that their plan would work. That any second now, oxygen would start flooding in again, and they’d be fine. “Now what?”

“Now—” Viktor shook his head. “Let’s reconnect the light.”

Yuuri followed Viktor’s instructions until the red glow returned. When it did, Viktor let go of the wall and kicked himself backwards, drifting across the compartment. For a second, Yuuri stared at him, until Viktor hit the opposite wall and nudged himself back, and he realized it was the zero-gravity equivalent of pacing the room.

“Why did we do that?” Yuuri asked.

“So we would know for sure,” Viktor said. “Whether it’s working.”

Yuuri nodded. “Okay. Now what?”

Viktor was silent for a long moment. “Now, we have forty-nine minutes.”

“Until—what? We have seventeen hours, you said.”

“We have seventeen hours with both of us here, yes,” said Viktor.

“What happens in forty-nine minutes?”

“We cross the threshold of not having enough air even if there was only one of us,” Viktor said.

“But,” Yuuri said, and then his brain caught up and he understood. “No. No.”

“If one of us can live,” Viktor said, “Then we have to. I refuse to let both of us die when it could be otherwise.”

“We’re going to fix it,” Yuuri said. “We’re both going to live.”

“How?” Viktor returned.

Yuuri shook his head. He didn’t know, but he knew the alternative wasn’t an option. “You’re a genius. You’ll think of something.”

“I did, and it didn’t work. And I’ve thought of something else.”

Viktor seemed remarkably calm, considering what he was suggesting. “Just now? You thought of this now?”

“No,” Viktor admitted. “I thought of it first. Before I had the idea to reroute the electricity. But it didn’t seem right to bring it up if it wasn’t necessary.”

Despite the fact that their uniforms were specially designed for temperature control, Yuuri felt cold all over. “And now you think it’s necessary.”

“I do.”

“Then…” Yuuri shook his head. “How would we ever decide?”

“It would be me,” Viktor said. “You would live.”

Yuuri let go of the wall in shock and started drifting upwards. It was  a few moments before he had enough of a grip on himself to grab on again, and it left him looking down at Viktor. “No! You can’t—no!”

“It makes the most sense,” Viktor said reasonably.

“It doesn’t!” Yuuri couldn’t get a good look into Viktor’s eyes from his position, so he flailed awkwardly downwards. “You’re—Viktor, you’re a genius. People look up to you, if you died—I’m just a dime-a-dozen astrobotanist, anyone could do what I do!”

Viktor looked at him with disbelief. “Are you crazy? You’re brilliant. Not ‘just anyone’ can grow plants in space.”

“Well, I can’t!” Yuuri said.  “I’ve been here seven months and I’ve accomplished nothing, and I won’t and you’re—you can’t, I can’t let you die!”

“Do you think I’ve accomplished anything in my time here?” Viktor asked. “Odds are that no one will find extraterrestrial life until centuries after I’m dead. I could live to be a hundred and never move an inch farther in my work. And it’s not important, not for this. There are more important considerations.”

“Like what?” Yuuri demanded.

"What about your family?" Viktor asked.

"What about yours?" he returned.

"Yuuri," Viktor said. "My parents are gone. Yakov, Yura, they do not need me. And you—" Viktor shook his head. "I think you are the only person who has really known me in fifteen years. You're all the family I have."

Yuuri could barely process the implication of that. “You can’t mean that,” he said.

“I can,” Viktor said. “You have parents. I know you call them. You have an older sister. And friends, too. Can you imagine how they would feel?”

Yuuri shook his head.

Viktor continued. “I can imagine it, because—Yuuri. Yuuri, I could not bear to lose you, and there are too many others who feel the same. All I have waiting for me is a dog, and—she is a very good dog, but she is used to my being gone.”

“How can you say that?” Yuuri said. “How can you say that you can’t bear to lose me when you’re asking me to—” He broke off and tried to begin again. “To, when I—”

He kept running up against the same words. _How can you ask me to let you go when I love you?_

Viktor seemed to be steeling himself against something. “Yuuri,” he said

“What?”

“I love you,” he said. “I have tried to—that is, I know you don’t feel the same way. But you are the only person I have been able to be honest with since—I don’t know, since before I can remember. And I cannot live without you, not now that I know what it is like. So please think of this as a selfish request, and be the one to live.”

They still had hours and hours of air, but Yuuri felt as though all the breath had been knocked out of his body. “What?”

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” Viktor said, and laughed, somehow. “So you can pretend I didn’t say anything if—”

“But you’re _Viktor Nikiforov_ ,” Yuuri said, sharp and disbelieving.

“Yes?”

“You’re—you’re a genius, you were—even as a teenager!”

“Ah,” Viktor said. “Being a child prodigy is very, hmm, isolating. There is no one like you, you see. You are hardly with others your age, and when you are you do not understand each other. And adults, sometimes they too are jealous, or maybe they care for you but it is not the same. And everyone expects you to be Viktor Nikiforov, math prodigy, or Viktor Nikiforov, genius, and no one expects you to be Viktor, a person, until suddenly you are on a space station and someone is looking at you like you are—like you are someone like them. And perhaps—I know I misread it, but—”

“No,” Yuuri said, “I—you’re. That’s—what I mean is, it’s mutual. Of course I—Viktor, you’re amazing. I just can’t believe that someone like you would want someone like me.”

“Someone like you?” Viktor shook his head. “Yuuri, you’re—even if you don’t see it, you’re brilliant. You’re kind, you’re—I told you this. The last seven months, they are the happiest I’ve ever been.”

“You told me—“ Yuuri stared at him. “That was _me_?”

“Who else?”

“I’m an idiot,” Yuuri said. “God.”

“And all of that aside,” Viktor said. “You have people waiting for you back on Earth, and I do not. It is not a hard decision.”

“How can you tell me that?” Yuuri’s eyes were welling up with tears. “How can you tell me that you love me and then ask me to…”

“I’m sorry.” Viktor leaned in to wipe the drops away with his thumb. They didn’t drip down Yuuri’s face as tears normally did—instead, they drifted into the air in little motes.

“God,” Yuuri said. He sniffled. “Can I blow my nose in zero gravity?”

“Yes,” Viktor said. “Here.” He went through the pockets of his suit until he found a pack of tissues, and then he carefully extracted one and held it to Yuuri’s face. “Blow.”

Yuuri did, despite feeling childish. Viktor carefully wiped it away and folded the tissue into his pocket. “We’re going to fix it,” Yuuri said.

“In the next…” Viktor checked the time again. “Forty minutes?”

“Yes,” Yuuri said.

“I’m not opposed to trying,” Viktor said. “But if it fails, then promise me, Yuuri. You will help me do what is necessary.”

“I…” Yuuri shook his head. “You can’t ask me to…” The mere thought of it was too difficult; Yuuri’s mind actively rejected it every time he tried to imagine what it would be like, to let Viktor…no. He couldn’t.

“Yuuri,” Viktor said. “Please. I won’t be able to do it alone.”

“How would you even do it?” Yuuri shook his head. “You couldn’t, I mean—“

“The exhaust from the propulsion system,” Viktor said. “It doesn’t function when the module is disconnected, of course, but it’s still there.”

Yuuri didn’t want to know, but that somehow didn’t stop him from asking, “How?”

“The carbon compound in the exhaust will bind in the lungs like oxygen,” Viktor said quietly. “I’ll just breathe it in. I won’t feel the difference. Then I’ll start to feel tired, and I’ll fall asleep, and after a little bit my heart will stop.”

Yuuri’s next breath came as a little gasp. “Will it hurt?”

“No,” Viktor said. “It shouldn’t.  But would it matter if it did?”

Yuuri realized he was crying again. It was an odd pricking feeling of the droplets drifting away. “Yes,” Yuuri said. “I’m already losing you. I can’t—I couldn’t live with myself if it hurt you.”

“It won’t,” Viktor said quietly.

“And it doesn’t matter,” Yuuri said. “Because we’re going to find a way to get this working again. If the electricity isn’t working—how do we generate electricity?”

“The same way electricity gets generated anywhere else,” Viktor said. “Magnet and coil?”

“Okay,” Yuuri said. “That—the module has its own generator, right?”

“Sure,” Viktor said. “Oh, that explains a lot, actually.”

“What?”

“The main generator is connected to the propulsion of the station,” Viktor said. “That’s a lot of power. Disconnected from that, the generator here is reliant on a much weaker system and generates much less electricity.”

“But if we could somehow make it stronger!” Yuuri said. “Catalyze the fuel reaction, maybe? You said, there’s a small propulsion system on here…”

“Yes,” Viktor said. “Yes, that might work.”

They found the panels above the generator on the floor of the module. It was harder to maintain their position there, with less to hang onto, but once they’d pried up the flooring Yuuri could hold onto the edge and look down at the glowing coils.

“The fuel is hydrogen-based,” Viktor said.

“Okay?” Yuuri said.

“More hydrogen, more fuel, more electricity, maybe,” Viktor said. “But I don’t know how we’d get enough hydrogen to—“

Yuuri stiffened. “The electrolysis generates hydrogen.”

“Yes?” Viktor paused. “It’s just released outside…”

“If we reroute the tubing,” Yuuri said, “And feed it back in, that’s more fuel, and more electricity…”

“We’d have to rely on it generating a little in the first place,” Viktor said. “We’ll have to reconnect the wiring. But if it works…”

“If it works,” Yuuri said, “We’ll both live. And it’s going to work.”

“If it doesn’t—” Viktor began.

“It will,” Yuuri said.

“But if it doesn’t,” Viktor said. “Promise me we’ll work fast.”

The words tasted like ash on his tongue, but Yuuri said, “I promise.”

They moved quickly after that, Yuuri hyper-aware of the minutes counting down. They started by reconnecting the hydrogen release tube, wiring it into the engine compartment. Handling the hyper-flammable substance was nerve-wracking, especially since he was essentially duct-taping it into place. But eventually it was stable and secured, and he turned back to Viktor, who was rewiring the system, handling only the dead wires.

“I rerouted it,” Viktor said. “I think this will give us more power to start with, and maybe combined…”

“It will work,” Yuuri repeated.

“I love you,” Viktor said, suddenly. “I know I said that before, and that you—”

“I love you too,” Yuuri said. He was surprised by how easily the words came out. Then he let go of the edge of the generator compartment and pushed himself over, Viktor’s fingers closing around his arms to keep him at floor-level, and he kissed him.

When he drew away, Viktor was practically glowing.

“Help me connect this,” Yuuri said, and he couldn’t hold back his smile in return.

Together, they routed the last of the wires together. They had fifteen minutes remaining when the last wire clicked into place, and they pulled back to avoid being shocked.

“Is that it?” Viktor said, although he knew it was.

“That’s it,” Yuuri said. He glanced back at the life support module. It still glowed red. “We…wait, I guess.”

“We should know soon if it’s working,” Viktor said. “Maybe fifteen cycles, once it starts to detect oxygen generation, the warning light will go away and it will turn green.”

“How long?”

“Mm,” Viktor went distant as he did the math. “Five minutes, probably.”

“It will work,” Yuuri repeated, and it had become a mantra, a prayer.

It didn’t work.

After five minutes, the light remained stubbornly red. Viktor kicked off the floor to the oxygen vents and held up a hand, but he shook his head at Yuuri—nothing.

“Maybe it’s just taking a little longer,” Yuuri said.

They waited. Ten minutes. Nothing. All the joy that had suffused Viktor’s features when Yuuri kissed him was gone now, and he just looked tense. Yuuri couldn’t bring himself to speak again, as though breaking the silence between them would somehow hurt their chances, shatter the fragile hope that still hung in the air.

When twelve minutes went by, Viktor said, “I need you to help me.”

“We still have—“

“You promised,” Viktor said. “Yuuri, you promised you would act fast.”

Where had those forty minutes gone, Yuuri wondered? He had a sense of vertigo. But he pushed himself up after Viktor, towards the wall. Viktor found the panel immediately. The ladder to the overhead hatch was beside it, and it gave them an easy way to hold on.

Viktor opened the panel and found the tube easily. “Can you—” he said. “I’ll need both hands, can you help me stay in place?”

Yuuri nodded. He ended up hooking himself onto the ladder, both legs tucked under the rungs, one arm looped around the metal and the other around Viktor’s chest. Viktor was warm against him, even through the fabric of their uniforms, and Yuuri could feel his heart beating under his hand.

“It was supposed to work,” Yuuri whispered. “I was so sure…”

Viktor said nothing. He merely found the point where the tube connected and poised his fingers on it, ready to pull it away. A glance at the clock said they had two minutes until their deadline—a word that had taken on a new, horrific meaning in the preceding moments.

“Viktor?” he asked.

Viktor turned his head to look at him. There was something unfamiliar in his eyes, something that Yuuri couldn’t read. “Yuuri,” he said. “You don’t have any pets, do you?”

The non-sequitur threw Yuuri for a moment. “No? My dog—he passed away before we left. I told you about it.”

“Then would you,” Viktor hesitated. “When you go back to Earth, would you mind looking after my Makkachin?” The next words came out in a rush, as though he was afraid of what Yuuri would reply. “Of course she’ll be in good hands regardless, Yakov won’t let anything happen to her, but I think you would be good for each other. She’s a very good dog and you, I think she would feel very loved with you.”

“Yes,” Yuuri choked out. “Of course.”

Viktor relaxed a little, glancing back at Yuuri one more time with that same strange gleam in his eyes. “Thank you. Yuuri, I—” he broke off and looked away. “Thank you.”

It was at that moment that everything clicked into place. The look in Viktor’s eyes, Yuuri realized with a start, was _fear._

He’d been putting up a good front to keep Yuuri calm, but in these last moments it had slipped through. Yuuri felt a wave of guilt and sadness and so much love he could have drowned in it if he let himself. Instead, he tightened his arm around Viktor’s chest, ignoring the way the rungs of the ladder dug into his other arm as he anchored them to the side.

“What do you need?” Yuuri asked, quietly. “Anything.”

“Just—” Viktor still had one hand on the plastic tubing, but he used the other to reach back and touch Yuuri’s face, twisting to look at him. “Stay close to me? Until—until the end.”

“I will,” Yuuri promised. His voice was steady, but he knew Viktor could feel the hot tears as they streamed down his cheeks. “I’ll be right here.”

Viktor took in a shaky breath. The red light from the failed life support reflected in the blue of his eyes, wet with tears but not yet spilling over. They looked at each other. Yuuri desperately tried to memorize Viktor’s face all over again, the precise shade of his eyes, the way his silver bangs swept across his face, the exact jut of his cheekbones.

Viktor gave Yuuri a smile. It wasn’t Yuuri’s favorite one, the wide heart-shaped one that only seemed to be directed at him.  But it wasn’t one of his perfect media smiles, either. It was small, and sad, but Viktor meant it.

The alarm beeped on Viktor’s watch.

“I love you,” Yuuri said, desperately.

“I love you too,” Viktor said, and it had hardly been an hour since they’d first said the words to each other but they already felt familiar, like Yuuri had been hearing them for years. Like they’d become a part of him, settled into his life as firmly and permanently as Viktor had. Yuuri wanted to make them a routine, like throwing out his poor stillborn plants every two weeks, like lunch with Viktor every day.

Yuuri wanted it more than he’d wanted anything else in his life, wanted it so badly it physically hurt in his chest, like something was clawing inside of him, trying to rip its way out. Like his heart was breaking.

Viktor drew his hand, finally, away from Yuuri’s face, and turned away from him. He raised the tubing to his face, and then he hesitated.

“Yuuri,” he said. “When I—when I go to sleep. I won’t be able to hold it in place.”

Yuuri sucked in a sharp breath. “I can’t—I—” he didn’t know how to say, _I can’t hold it there, I can’t kill you, I’m not strong enough._

Somehow Viktor knew. “Here.” He found Yuuri’s hand that was curled around his chest and fitted it over the top of his. “Just don’t let go of my hand.” It was the same thing, in the end, but it felt different to feel the warmth of Viktor’s skin under his, even knowing that beneath it was the cold plastic of the tube. “Can you do that for me?” Viktor asked, softly.

“I won’t let go,” Yuuri promised.

“Thank you,” Viktor said, and it came out in barely a whisper. The watch beeped again, sharp and insistent. “I love you, Yuuri,” he said, and he disconnected the tube and raised it to his mouth.

Yuuri felt him do it more than saw him, his hand over the top of Viktor’s when he brought it to his face. “I love you,” Yuuri said, and then it was all he could say. “I love you, Viktor, I love you so much, I love you, god, _why_ —”

He broke off into a sob, his vision blurring the horrible flashing red of the broken system and the silver of Viktor’s hair and the beautiful cold expanse of stars out the window, and he blinked the tears back in time to see the life support alert flicker from red to green and the hiss of new air start to spill from the vents.

For a fraction of a second, Yuuri was frozen, paralyzed in the green light. Then he pulled Viktor’s hand back, ripping the tube out of his grasp and fumbling to reconnect it. Once the gas was venting itself rather than spilling into the compartment he let himself look again at the green, at the fact that it was working, and the noise that came from him didn’t even sound human, somewhere between a sob and a sigh as the fear and grief spilled out all at once.

“Yuuri—” Viktor tried, but he didn’t have enough air for it. Yuuri released him and let him drift away so he could untangle himself from the ladder enough to grab hold again and turn Viktor towards him.

“Breathe,” Yuuri said, “Just take deep breaths, come on, I’ve got you, I love you.”

Viktor breathed in shuddering gasps. Yuuri pulled him back towards him, not to anchor them in place this time but simply to hold them together, keeping Viktor in his arms as he got his breath back.

A glance at the watch told him it had been barely thirty seconds, but it had felt like a decade. Viktor looked sickly under the green glow of the life support panel, the odd light unflattering on his pale skin, but it was the most beautiful thing Yuuri had ever seen.

“God,” Viktor said when he had enough air for it, “Yuuri, I love you so much.”

Yuuri laughed. It sounded hysterical even to his own ears. When he tried to speak, his words came out in choking sobs. “I can’t ever do that again,” he said. “You can never die, I can’t watch you die, Viktor—”

“You won’t,” Viktor promised, pointlessly, still half-breathless. “We’re going to be okay, Yuuri, I can’t believe—”

“Breathe,” Yuuri sobbed out. “Please just breathe.”

Viktor inhaled again. Yuuri pulled him closer, wrapping his arms around him, and he felt Viktor do the same. He matched their breaths together like they had before, trying to calm himself, and they fell into a steady rhythm together as Viktor’s breathing started to settle.

“Yuuri,” Viktor said, finally. “I love you.”

“I know,” Yuuri said, and then buried his face in Viktor’s shoulder and cried.

When he finally looked up, he saw that Viktor’s eyes were also wet. He seemed very fragile in Yuuri’s arms like this, and Yuuri wanted to hold him there forever. _I almost lost you_.

Viktor took a breath, careful and deliberate. “I’m not sure I’ll take this for granted again,” he admitted, and he laughed, but Yuuri didn’t find it funny at all. He could picture Viktor gasping for breath all-too-easily now that he had seen it.

“You said it wouldn’t hurt,” Yuuri said, and it came out accusingly.

“I didn’t think it would,” Viktor said.

“But it did,” Yuuri said.

“Yes,” Viktor said.  “It hurt a little.”

“Does it still?” Yuuri asked, anxiety rising.

“No,” Viktor said. “No. It was only for a little while, I don’t think I’m hurt at all.”

“When we get back,” Yuuri said, “We need to talk to someone, we need—”

“We’ll call Mission Control,” Viktor promised. “But I feel fine, Yuuri.”

“How much longer?” Yuuri asked.

“About thirty hours,” Viktor said. “I’ve set an alarm—we have tethers but the station has stronger ones, so hopefully Yura is ready to handle it."

Yuuri nodded. “How can you—” he couldn’t stop thinking of Viktor, preparing to die in his arms. “Just a few minutes ago—”

“I’m trying not to think about it,” Viktor said, with a little bit of an edge to it, and then he sighed. “I’m sorry, Yuuri, I just—need to get through the next thirty hours.”

“And then what?” Yuuri asked.

“And then we won’t be in zero gravity and I’ll be able to cry properly,” Viktor’s voice broke, and he wiped at his face. “I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Yuuri said. “That was—I can’t imagine going through that, I—” he didn’t know how to articulate that he didn’t blame Viktor for being upset. “I love you.”

Viktor looked at him, and his smile came back a little. “You do, don’t you?” There was a heavy sort of awe in his voice, the same tone he used when he talked about things that deserved it, like the vastness of the universe or the search for extraterrestrial life. He said it like Yuuri loving him was something incredible and unbelievable and beautiful.

“I do,” Yuuri said, and he pulled Viktor to him again, even though they’d let themselves drift crookedly towards the ceiling. “I really, really do.”

This time, Viktor leaned in to kiss Yuuri. It wasn’t frantic in the way their first kiss had been, bracketed by the impending sense of death and humming with nerves. This was slow and careful, Viktor’s hands on Yuuri like he was a delicate piece of glass, something precious and breakable.

It was sweet, and warm, and Yuuri abruptly wanted more, wanted to be close enough to Viktor to feel his heartbeat and know he was alright. He deepened the kiss, and Viktor let out a soft hum against him, his hands tightening on Yuuri’s shoulders. Yuuri slid his hands down to grip Viktor’s hips and pulled himself flush against him, grinding once against him. Viktor let out a gasp and then pulled back.

“Sorry, did—” Yuuri flushed.

“No,” Viktor hurried to reassure him, “Believe me, I want to, but we can’t.”

“Why not?” Yuuri realized he sounded a little petulant.

“Look at where we are!”

Yuuri looked.  They had somehow managed to drift far enough upwards that Viktor was about to hit the ceiling. “Oops.”

“Oops,” Viktor agreed. “Believe me, when we have gravity again…” he trailed his fingertips along the collar of Yuuri’s suit, and his gaze dipped down, leaving no doubt what he was thinking. “I would like nothing better.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Yuuri said, and then let Viktor kick off from the ceiling to bring them back down to the center of the module. “But what else are we going to do for twenty-nine hours?”

“We will doubtless think of something,” said Viktor. “Besides…”

“Besides what?”

Viktor hesitated. “It may not matter at all.”

“What?” Yuuri insisted. “Viktor, if this is something else that’s going to kill us…”

“It definitely won’t kill us,” Viktor said. “I just don’t want to worry you unnecessarily.”

Yuuri gave him a very hard look. “Does this have to do with the fact the temperature’s dropping?”

Viktor brightened. “Oh, you noticed!”

Yuuri scowled. “Is it going to kill us?”

“No,” Viktor said. “I’m almost entirely sure.”

“Then who cares?” said Yuuri.

“Who cares, indeed,” said Viktor.

An hour later, they both cared very much, because it had dropped two full degrees.

“This is going to kill us,” Yuuri said.

“No,” Viktor said. “Even assuming we keep losing heat at the same rate, it won’t kill us. It will just be very uncomfortable for a little while.”

“If we keep losing heat at the same rate,” Yuuri said, “It will be zero degrees in twenty hours.”

“Very true,” said Viktor, “But we’ll only keep losing heat until we complete this half of the orbit.”

“We’re on the dark side of the planet,” Yuuri realized.

“Twelve hours and we’ll be back on the side with sun,” Viktor said. “We’ll make it.”

Yuuri nodded and shivered. “Come here,” he said, and extended his arms. “Hold me.”

“Oh?” Viktor grinned. “Do you want me to keep you warm?”

“Not if you keep looking at me like that,” Yuuri said, flushing, but the chill rapidly outweighed any embarrassment. “You know what? Yes. Come keep me warm.”

“Of course,” Viktor said, and he pulled Yuuri to his chest. Yuuri curled against it, wrapping his legs around Viktor’s waist, his hands clenched in the fabric of his suit, burying his face in his chest. He felt rather than saw Viktor tip his head forward and tuck his face into the curve of Yuuri’s neck. He shivered at the cold of Viktor’s nose against his skin.

“Sorry,” Viktor murmured, and made to pull back.

Yuuri tugged him back in, curling closer. “Stay close to me,” he said.

“Always,” Viktor promised. Then he amended, “As long as you want me.”

Yuuri wondered at that, the same way that he’d wondered earlier at Viktor’s assertion that Yuuri was the only person who truly knew him, the idea that somehow he and Yuri and a thesis advisor and a dog were the only people in the world who would truly miss Viktor. It was an absurd concept, that there would be a person who could look at someone like Viktor and not see how wonderful he was, not love him utterly. But something or someone had convinced Viktor that few people would miss him, that Yuuri would someday somehow change his mind about wanting him.

He didn’t know how to change that, not in the day they had remaining in the module together, maybe not even in the eleven months they had left on the mission together. But Yuuri suspected he had longer than that, if he wanted—and he did want.

“Always, then,” Yuuri said, and he could feel Viktor’s expression shift into a smile against his neck.

At some point, Yuuri fell asleep. He woke in Viktor’s arms still, although they were against the side of the capsule again, Viktor’s legs hooked around the ladder to prevent them from drifting. Despite the precaution, Viktor was awake—Yuuri felt him shift when Yuuri did and met his gaze.

“How long has it been?” Yuuri asked.

“Seventeen hours left,” Viktor said.

Yuuri gasped. “I’ve been asleep that long?”

“I thought it would be better,” Viktor said. “You seemed very tired. And it should be getting warmer, now.”

Yuuri had been exhausted, and he only realized it now after sleeping. He’d woken up earlier than he’d wanted that morning, and the stress of the preceding few hours—the accident, zero gravity, rewiring the capsule, their argument, learning that Viktor loved him and nearly losing him minutes later—on top of the dropping temperature had taken more out of him than he’d realized.

“Did you sleep?” he asked.

Viktor shook his head. “I couldn’t. Don’t worry about me, Yuuri.”

“Someone needs to worry about you,” Yuuri said without thinking. “It might as well be me.”

“Let me worry about me,” Viktor said.

“No,” Yuuri said. “I love you, it’s my job to worry about you. Don’t you worry about me?”

“Of course,” Viktor said.

“Then you can’t complain that I worry about you,” Yuuri said stubbornly.

“I’m not complaining,” Viktor said, and then he reconsidered.  “I suppose I am not used to people worrying. But I do not mind it. I appreciate it.”

There was something careful in Viktor’s tone, like he was modulating it. It felt artificially light, like there was something lying beneath his words, or else other words that he was choosing not to voice. It was that sense—that sense that he was looking at the smooth surface of the pond while something churned mercilessly under the water—that drove him to speak again.

“People should worry about you,” Yuuri said. “You’re—you say you’re fine when you’re not, and you for some reason think people don’t care when they do, and you were going to die for me earlier and you tried to pretend you weren’t afraid but you were, I could tell,” the words came out in a rush. He couldn’t look at Viktor as he said them, but he didn’t have to—in Viktor’s arms still, he was close enough to his chest to curl against him and avoid meeting his gaze. “You can tell me, you know. If we’re going to do this, you have to tell me when you’re afraid.”

“Alright,” Viktor said. “Yuuri.”

“Viktor?”

“I’m afraid.”

“What?” Yuuri pulled back then, trying to figure out if Viktor was teasing, if there was something he didn’t realize. “Is something wrong, are we—”

“Ah, no,” Viktor said, a little sheepish, and pulled Yuuri back to him. Yuuri almost protested, and then Viktor rested his chin on Yuuri’s head and he realized that Viktor was pulling the same trick he’d used moments ago, proximity to prevent eye contact. “I’m afraid that you will regret this when we’re safe again.”

“Regret what?”

“Me,” Viktor said. “Saying you love me. I feel as though I pushed you into it.”

“What?” Whatever Yuuri had expected, it wasn’t that.

“You thought I was about to die,” Viktor said, “And so did I, I suppose, so perhaps you can forgive me for seeking comfort where I could find it but, I hope you know I won’t—that is, if you don’t want to, I won’t hold you to it, I wouldn’t—”

“Viktor,” Yuuri said.

“Yuuri,” Viktor said. His voice always had a slightly lilt on the two vowels, a careful verbal differentiation between his crewmates. Nicknames aside, Yuuri always knew when Viktor meant him.

“Hold me to it,” Yuuri said. “I want to, I—I’ve been thinking it for as long as you have. Longer, probably. I told you I read your book. I told you—Viktor, you’re the whole reason I’m here. And if I didn’t—I had no idea you were flirting with me, because I couldn’t believe you would want to. Not because I didn’t feel that same. Of course I feel the same. I don’t—” Yuuri made a sharp frustrated noise. “I don’t understand why you think these things, Viktor Nikiforov!”

Viktor made an amused sound. “Is that—the American thing, where you say someone’s full name to say you are angry with them?”

“Yes!”

“You should have used my patronym,” Viktor said. Then, when Yuuri opened his mouth, he laughed. “Don’t, please don’t, I was joking.”

“Viktor…” Yuuri said, waiting for Viktor to fill in the blank. But Viktor was clearly thinking of something else.

“Vitya,” he said.

“What?”

“In Russia, when you are close to someone, you use their nickname,” Viktor said. “You have heard me, with Yura.”

“Yura, yes,” Yuuri said. “That’s common?”

“Yura, Yurotchka, both of those, yes,” Viktor said. “There are many for Viktor, but mine has always been Vitya. You should—if you want, that is.”

“Vitya,” Yuuri said. “Is that right?”

“That’s right,” Viktor said.

“Who else calls you that?” Yuuri wanted to know.

“Yakov,” Viktor said. “Since I was young. A few of my colleagues.”

“That’s it?” Yuuri said.

“I told you,” Viktor said. “There are very few people who know me as you do.”

“Their loss,” Yuuri said, and he meant it.

Viktor pet his hair. It startled Yuuri at first, and then he leaned into it—it felt nice. His hair was short, he’d never had it long like Viktor’s had been as a teenager, so he’d stopped having reason for someone besides himself to put their fingers in it a long time ago. It was unexpectedly soothing.

Yuuri let Viktor do it for some time, until his fingers stilled on their own. Yuuri opened his mouth to protest before he realized that Viktor was asleep. His body had relaxed against Yuuri, still tangled enough in the ladder to hold them steady.

Yuuri leaned back enough to study his face, brushing a strand of hair out of his eyes. Something in his expression had relaxed in sleep, and Yuuri wondered if their conversation had somehow alleviated a fear strong enough to keep him awake.

“Idiot,” Yuuri whispered. “You’ll never get rid of me now.”

He watched Viktor sleep for some time, and then eventually realized he had to extricate himself. He wasn’t able to do so without waking Viktor, who stirred, blinking at him.

“Sorry,” Yuuri said. “Go back to sleep.”

“What is it?” Viktor straightened up, releasing him.

“I need to pee,” Yuuri whispered, face flushing.

“What?”

“I need to pee!”

“Oh,” Viktor said. “I can turn my back.”

“…I don’t know how,” Yuuri admitted.

“…I’m so old,” Viktor complained, abruptly.

“You’re not old!” Yuuri protested immediately.

“And yet I’m somehow part of the generation that got trained how to do this,” Viktor sighed. “There should be a vacuum tube somewhere…”

The next ten minutes were deeply embarrassing; after that, the embarrassment wore off and Yuuri couldn’t help but giggle at the absurdity as they constructed a makeshift toilet.

“Why does it even have a vacuum tube?” Yuuri asked.

“Condensation!” Viktor said brightly. “The interior is made to be resistant to elements, of course, but water isn’t good for metal, so if you get too much sticking around on station interiors, it’s hard to maintain. They’ve had these in ships for forever.”

Yuuri stared at him. “I’m an idiot.”

“What?” Viktor blinked at him.

Yuuri smacked himself in the face. “The plant’s issue isn’t the lack of gravity! It’s the condensation not penetrating the roots! If I install a vacuum tube…god, remind me of this when I have a pen!”

“Okay,” Viktor was smiling at him. For a moment Yuuri just beamed back at him, caught up in his discovery, in Viktor looking at him like that. Then Viktor said, “Do you still…?” and gestured at the contraption.

“Yes,” Yuuri said. “Yes, I do.”

It took them twenty minutes to assemble, after which they took turns awkwardly turning their back on the other.

When they had finished, Viktor checked the clock. “Eleven hours left.”

“Go back to sleep,” Yuuri suggested. “You only slept four hours.”

Viktor shook his head. “I don’t want to.” There was something bright and wicked in his eyes. “We could celebrate your discovery.” He reached out and pulled Yuuri towards him, intention obvious from the way his hand went straight to Yuuri’s collar.

Yuuri flushed.  “You said—and what would we even—it’s not like we have condoms—”

“Yuuri!”  Viktor feigned being shocked, but he looked delighted. “I was just going to kiss you!”

“Well,” Yuuri said, “Prove it.”

“How?”

“By kissing me!”

Viktor laughed and closed the rest of the distance between them, cupping the back of Yuuri’s head in his hand and pressing their lips together.

True to his word and the constraints of zero gravity, they got no further than that, but it was a journey anyway. Viktor started out slow, almost cautious, carefully fitting their bodies together, his lips warm and soft against Yuuri’s. Eventually their kisses deepened, became open-mouthed and desperate, Viktor’s fingers on Yuuri’s zipper, unmoving, but a promise of things to come.

Eventually they broke apart, flushed and anticipatory. Viktor abruptly laughed.

“What?”

“Your hair,” Viktor said.

“Yours too,” Yuuri said, knowing exactly what Viktor meant because he could see his disarray mirrored.

“Here,” Viktor said. He finger-combed Yuuri’s hair until it lay flat again, and then Yuuri returned the favor. When he had finished he kept carding his fingers through Viktor’s hair until Viktor yawned.

“Go to sleep,” Yuuri said. He found a grip on the wall and anchored himself in place, holding out a hand. “I’ve got you.”

Viktor came willingly, folding himself against Yuuri again.  “You do, don’t you.”

“Of course,” Yuuri said. “Go to sleep.”

Viktor slept, and then Yuuri did, and they didn’t wake until the alarm was going off to tell them they were coming in range of the station. They woke together, instantly alert in a simultaneous flood of excitement and adrenaline.

“I hope the tether will launch,” Viktor said, chewing at his lip. “I suppose there was no way to test it, though, so—”

There was a thud as they were neatly hooked on a line from the station. “Or Yurio could take care of it,” Yuuri said, amused.

“Or he could,” Viktor agreed.  “Here, let’s get on the ground.”

“Once we dock,” Yuuri realized. “Gravity.”

“Gravity,” Viktor agreed.

They braced themselves; it wasn’t quite as dizzying when you expected it, but Yuuri’s head still spun when the module was snapped back into place and he could feel the weight of his own limbs again. He rose slowly, wobbly on his legs. Viktor seemed to be having the same problem, using the wall to get upright, although he was able to walk shortly thereafter.

They were still getting their bearings when the airlock cleared and the door of the module was opened from the outside.

“Fuck, you’re alive,” Yurio said. He gave them both a fierce, exhausted glare, and then burst into tears.

Yuri lurched forward and suddenly flung his arms around Yuuri, and Yuuri hugged him back until he shook him off, a cat who’d come for affection and then decided he’d had enough. Viktor insisted on a hug afterwards, and perhaps the best indicator of how shaken Yurio had been was that he obliged him momentarily.

In a rush, Yuuri realized how disgusting he felt, the close quarters and time and stress and sweat suddenly palpable in the fabric of his suit. He stumbled off to shower, leaving Yuri to dial mission control. At first it was nothing but a relief to be alone, letting the warm water sluice over his skin. He took fifteen minutes just to stand there, before finally going through the motions of washing himself. It was only when he turned the water off and felt the chill of the air that it felt unconscionable to still be there, when Viktor was not with him. Viktor, who had almost died in Yuuri’s arms not thirty hours ago.

Viktor, who loved him.

He rushed through dressing, charging back out into the common area with his hair still dripping. Yuri and Viktor were in the dining area, quiet. Yurio was microwaving something; Viktor was staring into a cup. At first Yuuri thought he was drinking tea, and then he realized it was his mug from the previous morning, the tea like ice inside it, the jam congealed on the bottom.

Viktor startled when Yuuri skidded into the room, and then smiled at him. Yuuri saw how his hands trembled on the handle, and snatched the cup away.

“Go take a shower,” Yuuri said. “I’ll wash this out.”

“I’m alright,” Viktor said, although Yuuri hadn’t said he wasn’t.

“I know,” Yuuri said, and kissed him on the forehead. “But take a shower and you’ll feel better.”

“I feel fine,” Viktor lied, but he stood up anyway. “And Yurio didn’t even do the dishes while we were away.”

Yurio made a ‘tch’ noise, but he didn’t let loose his anger until Viktor was gone. “That asshole,” he snarled, when the door clicked shut. “While you were away! Like it was a vacation! I thought you were dead!”

Yuuri smiled weakly. “We weren’t?”

“I know that now!” The microwave beeped, and he slammed it open and jerked his food out. The soft chicken, this time. “But I ran back the analysis and figured out what the problem was, and then I thought the life support wasn’t working.”

“It wasn’t,” Yuuri said.

Yurio froze. “What?”

“We fixed it!” Yuuri said, in a rush. “We fixed it and it was fine.”

Yuri set the tray heavily down on the counter. His back was to Yuuri, but the tension in his posture was obvious. “What the hell?”

“We fixed it,” Yuuri said.

“How!” Yurio said. “When I opened the door and you guys were—I thought I was just wrong. About what had happened.”

“No,” Yuuri said. “You were right. The life support wasn’t working.”

“Fuck,” Yuri said. “What did you do? No, wait, I know. He didn’t tell you.”

“Didn’t tell me what?” His own voice sounded a little distant in his ears.

“That one of you could have…” Yuri trailed off.

“One of us could have lived,” Yuuri said. “Yes, I knew that.”

“Then what—“ Yuri whirled around to face him.  “And you just decided to go for it? Seventeen hours, we’ll figure something out by then? Do you realize how long the odds were of fixing it!” Yuuri realized that their engineer was shaking, hands clenched into fists.

“We didn’t have seventeen hours,” Yuuri said. “We only had a little time. If it didn’t work, we were going to—“ Yuuri broke off. The image was still too real, especially with Viktor out of the room, the idea that Yuuri could have returned alone. They would have been sitting here just like this, Yuuri thought, and couldn’t suppress a shudder.

The anger had faded and Yuri had gone pale. “You—you fixed it before then.”

Yuuri made a split-second decision. Whatever ghosts he would have to live with, Yuri didn’t need to know just how close they had come to the worst-case scenario. “Yes,” he said. “We—he didn’t lie to me. We did talk about it, but we managed to fix it in time.”

“Thank god,” Yuri said, and he finally picked up the tray and brought it to the table. He stared at it for a moment and then looked up. “Don’t tell the old man. I was—worried.”

“I think he knows,” Yuuri said dryly.

“I mean,” Yuri scowled. “I thought you were going to be dead.”

“I know,” Yuuri said quietly. “I’m sorry. I wish you hadn’t gone through that.”

Yuri made a dismissive noise in his throat. “It wasn’t your fault.” He paused, and then it came out in a rush. “It was mine.”

“Oh, Yurio,” Yuuri said. “It wasn’t.”

“It was!” Yuri snapped. “The station is my responsibility. The module was my responsibility. I didn’t realize there was anything wrong with it even though the system was literally telling me there was an error. And then I’m the one who told you to get on it.” He took a deep breath. “If you had died, it would have been my fault.”

“You didn’t know,” Yuuri said. “Yurio, you didn’t know.”

“I didn’t,” he said. “And I should have! It’s my whole fucking job, and I fucked up and it almost killed you.”

“It didn’t,” Viktor said. He was standing in the doorway, hair damp from the shower, watching them. Yuuri had been so caught up in the conversation that he hadn’t noticed him arrive. Once he saw Viktor, though, he couldn’t look away. Viktor seemed to feel the same, because he closed the distance in seconds and sat on the bench beside Yuuri, leaving no space at all between them.

“Yeah, by sheer fucking luck,” Yuri snarled.

Yuuri leaned into Viktor and tipped his head onto his shoulder. “Yuri, we don’t blame you.”

“I blame me,” said Yuri, “And I’m right.”

“Maybe,” Viktor said. He had one hand on the table, but the other had found Yuuri’s and interlaced their fingers. “Perhaps you’re right. You’re the engineer. You were working on the module. It’s conceivable that you could have discovered what was wrong sooner, and none of this would have happened.”

Yuri didn’t say anything, but his face twisted into a scowl. He seemed like he wanted to pick a fight but wasn’t sure how. Viktor was both agreeing with him and saying something that obviously hurt to hear, and Yuuri almost interrupted, but Viktor barreled on.

“So you missed something. Human error. We all do it. I spent three days last week aiming a telescope in the wrong direction because I forgot to carry a two. Yuuri has spent seven months not growing plants because he forgot that water also experienced zero gravity. People make mistakes, Yura. There’s a reason why there’s never less than three people aboard a space station. It’s because a mistake shouldn’t mean death. And it didn’t.

“Yuuri and I, we were in that capsule. We saw the same diagnostic you did. And we heard you talk about what was wrong with the module for a week and we never thought it might be someone else. If you made a mistake, so did we. And Yura, mistake or not, I’d still trust you to keep this station in the air more than I’d trust myself.”

Yuri’s scowl was gone. He was just looking at Viktor.

Viktor smiled at him. “But you have to trust us, too, Yura. It wasn’t luck that we survived. It’s because this is our job, too. If you make a mistake, we will be able to fix it. And you will do the same for us. Do you understand?”

“Yeah,” Yuri said, and sniffled. “Yeah, okay.”

“Here,” Viktor said, and stood up. Yuuri half-expected Yuri to bolt, but instead he threw himself at  Viktor, who caught him and hugged him tightly. “See? It’s alright. We’re all okay.”

Yuuri wasn’t totally sure what possessed him to join in, only that it suddenly felt necessary to have his arms around them, a physical reassurance that everything had turned out fine. Yuri gave a little sigh when Yuuri wrapped his arms around both of them, but acquiesced with surprising grace.

When Yuri finally wriggled out from between them, suspiciously red-eyed, Viktor didn’t let go of Yuuri. His hand slid from Yuuri’s shoulder down his arm to link their hands together again. Yuuri automatically folded his fingers in with Viktor’s, the movements somehow familiar even though they were entirely knew.

Yuri saw, of course, and froze. “Did you two…”

“Did we…” Yuuri looked at their entwined hands. “Oh. Yes.”

“Seriously?” Yuri said.

“Yes?” Yuuri said, suddenly nervous.

Yuri pumped his fist in the air. “About fucking time!”

“It wasn’t—“ Yuuri flailed about as much as he could without letting go of Viktor’s hand. “It wasn’t like that!”

“It was exactly like that,” Viktor bemoaned. “Seven months, and you never even noticed.”

“I noticed, I just—“ Yuuri made a wild gesture instead of saying what came to mind, which was _I didn’t think you were serious._ That felt like a terrible insult now, when Viktor had quietly prepared to die to save Yuuri’s life, had told Yuuri to _consider it selfish._ It felt like a terrible insult to have thought it at all when he should have known better.

For so long he’d had an image of Viktor as someone untouchable, a genius, Yuuri’s personal hero. None of that was any less true, but sometime between then and now he’d turned into something more solid, a real person. A person who made mistakes, who was vain and melodramatic and teased and somehow, inexplicably, fell in love with Yuuri.

A person who meant it when he told Yuuri he loved him, and it had only taken Yuuri seven months to see it.

“You just,” said Viktor, soft, knowing.

“I just didn’t believe it,” Yuuri said. “That you could feel the same way I did.”

“Ah,” Viktor said. “If we’re being correct about it, I felt this way first.”

“No,” Yuuri said. “I’ve—since I saw you on television, when I was a kid. I knew it first.”

Viktor stared at him. “And all those months I was flirting with you, you never said anything!”

“I said—that first week!” Yuuri protested. “I told you I was a fan of yours!”

“I told you I was a fan of yours, too!” Viktor shot back. “It wasn’t a love confession, it was the truth.”

“It wasn’t?”

“No,” Viktor admitted. “The love came later.”

Yuri cleared his throat. He’d been watching them, eyes flicking back and forth like someone watching a tennis match. “Can you guys get a room?”

“Absolutely,” said Yuuri, bolder than he really felt, and he pulled Viktor down the hall by their still-intertwined hands.

It was only when he was at his door that he hesitated and let go, sheepish. “I didn’t mean to—that is,” Yuuri rubbed a hand on the back of his neck.  “You’re—welcome, but I don’t want to—“

“Yuuri,” Viktor said. “Let’s sleep together.”

Yuuri flushed. “Okay.”

The bunks were narrow, not impossibly so but definitely built with one occupant in mind. They were not designed for the eventuality that their occupants might have wanted to have sex in space. Yuuri would have been more annoyed about it if he himself had ever considered the idea that he would want to have sex in space before this moment, and if he’d been less exhausted. For all the teasing they’d done earlier and as much as the idea appealed, he was exhausted, and when he reached the bed all he wanted to do was collapse into it.

It was Viktor who hesitated beside it when Yuuri sat, and Yuuri tugged him down next to him. The bed was not big enough for both of them unless they pressed together, but that was suddenly all that Yuuri wanted, to hold Viktor against him again. He pulled him close, Viktor’s back against his chest, an uncanny mirror of their position against the ladder during those horrible minutes.

As if he’d had the same thought, Viktor shuddered.

“Are you alright?” Yuuri asked into Viktor’s ear.

“Yes,” Viktor said, but he was shaking. “I’m alright.” The words came out shuddery, too, and then Yuuri could see the tears in Viktor’s eyes before he turned away and tucked his chin into his chest. Yuuri couldn’t see it anymore, but he could hear him shudder with sobs, someone keeping himself quiet.

“Oh,” Yuuri said. “Oh, Vitya, no, come here.” It took a bit of maneuvering in the narrow space, but Yuuri slid back against the wall and turned Viktor to face him, drawing him back into his arms. Viktor’s face was damp with tears as he trembled against Yuuri.

“I’ve got you,” Yuuri promised. “I won’t let anything happen to you, you’re safe.” He remembered how nice it had felt and he reached up and cupped the back of Viktor’s head in his hand and pet his hair. It was soft and fine, like silk under his fingers.

Viktor tried to choke back the tears. “Sorry,” he gasped out, “I’m sorry.”

“No,” Yuuri said, “No. Please cry. I don’t mean—I mean, you don’t have to hide some part of yourself from me. You don’t have to be strong in front of me. So—if you want to cry, please cry.”

“Yuuri,” Viktor said, and drew himself back a little and reached a hand up and cupped Yuuri’s face in his hand.

“What? What is it?”

“I’m making sure you’re real,” Viktor said. Then he curled against Yuuri and cried.  Yuuri kept petting his hair and rubbed his back until he went quiet and still, his breathing evening out.

“Vitya?” Yuuri asked, softly, and then he realize Viktor was asleep. “Okay,” Yuuri said, and he carefully wiped the remainder of the tears from Viktor’s face. “Goodnight, Vitya.”

He closed his eyes and listened to the soft sound of Viktor’s breathing, in and out, steady and even and easy. He let the rhythm of it wash over him like the sound of waves, and when he opened his eyes again, it was morning.

\---

The door hissed opened behind him and he heard the sound of Viktor’s footsteps in the entry to the lab. “Am I too early?”

“No,” Yuuri said. “But we’re going to have to push lunch back a little.”

“Oh?” Viktor leaned against the doorway, folding his arms. “Why’s that?”

Yuuri smiled and stepped aside so that Viktor could see the open canister. Poking through the dirt were a few little leaves, starkly pale green against the dark soil. “I’ve got a little bit of transplanting to do.”

Viktor grinned at him. “It sounds like we need a new routine, then.”

“Maybe,” Yuuri said. “But I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

“I think we’re capable of it,” Viktor agreed.

Yuuri had a few ideas. They started with the ways that Viktor had already become entwined in his life, the rhythm of Viktor’s footsteps in the doorway of his lab, the feel of his body pressed against Yuuri’s when they squeezed into one of their too-small bunks at night.

Some of them gleamed closer than others—the idea of Viktor beside him when he called home next week, and the week after, and every week that followed, perching on Viktor’s lab bench as he peered through a telescope and out into the distance. Some seemed a little further away, like setting foot on Earth in eleven months with Viktor’s hand in his, walking like that down the streets of St. Petersburg, across the beach in Hasetsu. And some were like the stars that Viktor strained to focus on, _mirai_ , the future distant enough to need its own word. He imagined something sparkling, expansive, incredible, imagined Viktor quietly letting himself in the door of Yuuri’s lab for the next five, ten, fifty years.

“Do you need anything?” Viktor asked, tipping his head towards the plants.

“No, that’s okay,” Yuuri said. “I’ve got everything I want right here.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you can, please leave a comment! They mean a lot.
> 
> I'm on Tumblr as [catalists](http://catalists.tumblr.com/).


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